


Until My Sorrow Is No More

by FindingSchmomo



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, Coffee Shops, Curses, Decapitation, Dreams, Execution, Fluff, Forbidden Love, Happy Ending, Injury, M/M, Reincarnation, Shrine Guardian! Oikawa, Soulmates, Violence, iwaizumi just wants to pay his rent, oikawa is a mess of a human being, remembering, shrine, the kageyama family is mentioned in passing, ushijima is there for a second
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-14 10:18:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13005651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FindingSchmomo/pseuds/FindingSchmomo
Summary: "It's those dirty Iwaizumi's fault," his oba-chan used to tell him, to explain away the paper cuts and the sprained ankles, to explain away his sickly cousins, to explain away his father's sudden death, "They forced themselves on your ancestor, corrupted him, and poisoned our line until the end of times.”Oikawa isn't so sure anymore.--Or a story of curses and sorrow, of beginnings and ends, and of love, above all else.





	Until My Sorrow Is No More

**Author's Note:**

> this fic is dedicated to my secret santa oijime!!! the prompt was angsty time loops so i hope reincarnation counts and that you like it!

_Let no drop of blood be untainted, let no child of child be stranger to mine fury, let your fears consume thee, until the wrongs are right, until the beginning is the end, until my sorrow is no more._

* * *

The first time Oikawa sees the barista, it’s through the window. He’s not sure what catches his gaze exactly, that he manages to find him so easily in the crowded space. Is it the way his uniform sleeves burst at the seams around his thick biceps? Is it the strong hands that dwarf the cup he carefully holds in them? Or is it his eyes, green like no other, piercing under his dark eyebrows? Piercing, piercing right _through_ him.

Oikawa swallows and his legs, still moving despite his eyes parking themselves on the stranger, catch on the street sign pole and he fumbles straight down onto the sidewalk.

Hanamaki shouts, in alarm, right beside him, “Are you serious, Oikawa?”

Oikawa smiles through gritted teeth, carefully standing back up. He takes his time to do so, testing out limbs, twitching his fingers, licking his lips. No blood so far. No broken bones. No sprains. Looks all clear. He lets out a sigh of relief.

“You okay?”

Oikawa jumps, smacking his head back against the pole, letting out a howl of pain as his hands dig into his hair reflexively.

“Oh shit, I’m sorry!”

It’s the man, the man he’d been so obviously ogling, looking at him with utter concern, because of _course_ it's him, because Oikawa Tooru just happens to be the Unluckiest Man in the World when it comes to this kind of thing. All kinds of things.

Oikawa forces his eyes open from their pained squint and immediately regrets it. _Why is this man so handsome_? he laments, inwardly, pretending the blood rushing to his face is for the knot forming on the back of his head and not his flushed cheeks. The man’s eyebrows quirk down, lip jutting out further and he looks so _worried_ and _concerned_ over Oikawa’s well being and it’s so sweet, because the stranger doesn’t _know_ Oikawa, doesn’t know this is just his every day, and, oh no the man is speaking isn’t he?

“--sure? I can’t, I can’t offer much but if you want a drink?”

Oikawa stares at him, a bit dazed, “I’d love to go out to drinks with you!”

It’s the other man’s turn to flush, and by the sudden cackle near Oikawa’s ear--coming from Hanamaki’s direction--he must have misheard completely.

“I, uh, I meant,” the man fumbles, and he bites his lip as he pauses, and Oikawa can’t stop replaying the image in his head. The man glances back at the coffee shop behind them and _of course_ that’s what he had meant. Oikawa is a fucking moron. Hopefully his smack with the street sign gave him a concussion so he can explain away this horrible moment in his life.

But then the man smiles, a bit shyly, a bit adventurously--there’s that lip bite again _god_ \--and he looks up at him, green eyes piercing straight into his soul, “But my shift ends at 8.”

Oikawa has forgotten how to breathe. Hanamaki, his good friend, his best friend, not so subtly smacks his back. Oikawa straightens up then, pulling his hands free from his hair, trying to recapture any sense of dignity he once had, “I’ll pick you up here.”

“Holy shit,” the man says, “You’re bleeding!”

Oikawa looks down at his right hand, groans and wipes the redness on his pant leg, “I’m fine. Don’t worry,” he starts hurrying away, tugging Hanamaki to follow him, but calls back for good measure, “Eight o’clock!”

The man gives him a bewildered look, but waves back all the same.

Hanamaki catches Oikawa before he can trip onto the busy street.

* * *

Iwaizumi catches a glimpse of the newest Shrine Guardian while lost in the surrounding woods. It startles him, at first, to see something in the distance. He immediately grabs his bow from his back, dropping his stance low as he creeps forward, on guard. 

He had left his family’s hovel against his mother’s wishes, to go find some food. He was the oldest, with two little sisters and another child on the way. His father toiled in the rice fields all day to provide for them but there simply wasn’t enough. It seemed so simple, to supplement their food with boars from the mountain.

No one was supposed to go into the mountains.

They were sacred, but they were also cursed. It confuses Iwaizumi, and seems stupid. A dumb set of conflicting lies to keep young boys out of trouble. But he wasn’t looking for trouble, he just wanted to feed his mother.

He gets lost immediately, ducking away from the path to the Seijoh Shrine to stay out of sight. He had only been to the sacred place twice, both times with his father, to offer what little they had to the Gods in hopes of healthy and safe births for his little siblings.

Iwaizumi keeps creeping forward, careful not to snap any twigs. He carefully, slowly, pushes away brush so he can peer past the foliage.

He takes in a sharp intake of breath at the sight before him.

He has somehow stumbled upon the sacred garden of Seijoh Shrine. He knows that must be what it is, with it’s sculpted greenery and beautiful clear ponds. But the landscape is not what startles Iwaizumi, is not what makes his heart jump into his throat, and his hands sweat against the bow they clutch.

No, it’s the boy.

A boy kneels by a pond, moon-kissed skin peeking out from a beautiful light blue robe. White stitching outlines green vines snaking along his body in an intricate, yet delicate design. His neck is long and thin, and Iwaizumi can only see his profile from this angle. A sharp long nose, beautiful brown eyes that match his wisping hair, combed into waves that cascade down past his shoulders.

His mouth is moving, whispering words into being, hands dipping down into the clear water. Iwaizumi holds his breath, not wanting to ruin the moment. The boy exhales, long and controlled, eyes sliding shut, and he’s beautiful, _he’s beautiful, he’s beautiful!_

Iwaizumi bites his lip.

The boy, after a moment, opens his eyes, lifting himself gracefully from his kneeling positioning and sweeping a piece of his brown hair behind his ear. His gaze flicks toward the bushes Iwaizumi hides in, a cruel smile alighting his features, “It’s rude to stare.”

Iwaizumi chokes.

The boy walks over, picking his way delicately through the foliage until he can crouch right in front of Iwaizumi’s frozen form, “Found you,” he sings without any sort of mirth. He smiles again, so fake it reaches his ears, eyes closing into slits, “It’s bad luck to wander these mountains, child.”

Iwaizumi blinks at this, brows furrowing down, the spell suddenly broken, “But you’re a child too!”

The boy does not expect this, eyes widening and smile dropping to reveal a more honest, petulant pout, “Yes, but _I am_ a Shrine Guardian, and you’re some, some, peasant or whatever.”

Iwaizumi glares at him, “How old are you?”

“What?”

“How old are you?” Iwaizumi repeats.

The boy hesitates, but then says, “Eleven.”

“When’s your birthday?” Iwaizumi continues, undeterred.

The boy’s eyes squints, “July 20th.”

Iwaizumi grins, green eyes suddenly delighted, “I’m a month older than you.”

The boy scowls, “That doesn’t change the fact you’re trespassing! And you’re speaking to a Shrine Guardian!”

“So?” Iwaizumi asks.

The boy sputters, “It’s against, it’s against the rules! No one outside the shrine is ever supposed to even _look_ at a Shrine Guardian.”

Iwaizumi blinks, tilting his head with a raised brow, “Last I check _you_ were the one who decided to talk to me.”

The boy reddens, hands fisting in the dirt, and Iwaizumi takes note of it, because it isn’t dainty, or pretty but it’s human and something he does too, when he’s upset. It softens him, and he puts his own hand on the other boys, startling him enough to relax the tension there, “It sounds lonely, too,” he offers.

The boy swallows, eyes staring at the hand on his. Iwaizumi quickly brings his own back, but the boy doesn’t let him, grabbing it in the air to bring it close to his face. The boy shrugs in response, voice distracted, “Sometimes.”

“Only sometimes?” Iwaizumi probes further.

“Your hands are rough,” the boy comments instead, soft fingers running along Iwaizumi’s many calluses.

“I help my father work the fields sometimes,” Iwaizumi answers.

The boy looks at him, really _looks_ at him, enough to make Iwaizumi feel his heart thump in his chest and wonder if the boy can hear it too. The boy lets out a smile, different from all the others, small and shy yet adventurous, a playful curl at the tips, “Only sometimes?”

Iwaizumi can’t help the grin that stretches on his face.

A bell chimes, and Oikawa looks away, toward the sound. The smile drops from his face again, replaced with nothing but a straight line. He disentangles their hands, “I have to go.”

Iwaizumi panics, “Can I, can I see you again?”

The boy blinks, turning back toward him. He’s straightened up completely, dusting off his robe carefully. He thinks a moment, eyes flicking up at the sky, “When the moon is high above us, and only if you are as quiet as a mouse. Come here and I’ll find you." 

Iwaizumi nods, perhaps a bit too eagerly, standing up himself, “Tonight?”

The boy tries to hide his smile behind his sleeve covered hand, but Iwaizumi can tell from the crinkle around his eyes, “Tonight.” 

Iwaizumi repeats it in his head as he watched the boy disappear toward the shrine. He waits until there's nothing left to look at before turning around and making his way back home as best he can. 

Iwaizumi asks his mother, that evening, the name of the new Shrine Guardian.

His father is the one that answers him, “It must be one of Oikawa’s boys right? I think it’s the youngest, Oikawa Tooru.”

 _Oikawa Tooru_ , Iwaizumi whispers to himself, almost reverentially, as he waits for the moon to rise.

* * *

Oikawa takes a calming breath. He checks his hair one last time in the reflection of the window. He looks good. He looks _great_. Luckily the cut on the back of his head had stopped bleeding, and he’d managed not add anymore bruises in the few hours since. 

He steels himself and steps into the cafe.

The man isn’t behind the counter, so Oikawa decides to take a seat and pull out his phone. He feels a bit silly then, rushing into this date with little to no thought. Is it even a date? He had kind of forced it on the guy, the guy he didn’t even know the name of or anything at all really.

Oikawa swallows, and turns on his location for Hanamaki to check on whenever, just in case.

The man comes out from the back, this time sans work apron, in a casual tee and jeans. Oikawa has to remind himself not to ogle at his biceps again, standing up to greet him properly.

The man gives him a half wave, but his feet are hesitant. His hand moves to scratch at the back of his neck, “About tonight, uh, I,”

Oikawa feels his stomach drop, “Oh, if you don’t want to--”

“No, no, no, um, it’s not, it’s not that,” the man quickly replies, and bites his lip--Oikawa feels weak again, eyes unable to _not_ look, “It’s just, my next paycheck isn’t ‘til next week and I--”

“Oh, is that it?” Oikawa blinks, “Don’t worry about it, I’ll cover you.”

The man frowns, about to argue and Oikawa waves him off, used to the normal posturing, “It’s fine. I asked you out to drinks, so it’s my treat,” he turns his body, so he can angle his head back in a way he knows makes him look devilishly handsome, “You can just treat me next time.”

The man stares at him, and then he does something Oikawa does not expect, he _laughs_ , curling up slightly with the force of it. Oikawa’s smirk drops as he takes it in, drinks it up, something telling him this is not a normal sight, that this is a rarity to indulge in.

The man grins at him, green eyes piercing and stuffs his hands in his pockets, “That’s a bit presumptuous isn’t?” he says, as he pushes past him and out of the cafe.

Oikawa straightens up. The statement is a challenge, _impress me_. It’s one Oikawa normally doesn’t receive, he’s already impressive. Good looks, charming smile, and well on his way to a business degree at one of the finest universities in Tokyo.

But Oikawa is never one to ignore a challenge.

He strides after the man, long legs letting him catch up fairly easily. He’s not ashamed to admit discovering his height advantage puts an extra bounce in his step, and he keeps his chin held high to accentuate it.  He leads them down the familiar Tokyo streets toward his favorite bar, a funky hole in the wall kind of spot, not too loud or crazy but unique enough to stick in the mind of any date.

Oikawa sends a prayer up to the gods that he didn’t trip once during the walk over, or round a corner to closely, or do anything else embarrassingly clumsy.

When they step inside he has them sit at the bar, the stools bolted close enough together that their thighs brush.

“What do you want?” Oikawa asks.

The man looks at him, smile still quirked up, “Surprise me.”

Oikawa grins at him and orders them a pair of dirty martinis. The man laughs again when he hears it, but if he has any complaints he keeps them to himself.

Conversation flows easily as they wait. Oikawa is a master of words who delights in talking about himself. The man is mostly quiet, but he’s engaged, asking questions, offering teasing comments and even flicks Oikawa’s forehead at one point.

It’s harder to get the man to talk, but Oikawa catches things not many others care to. The man is awkward about certain topics, hesitant to say anything when they broach Oikawa’s university life, careful not to give too much away. Oikawa can easily tell he’s a dropout, must be working full time at the cafe, or maybe he has another job. He must be living paycheck to paycheck.

Usually this would deter Oikawa, who has a certain vision for his future, but there’s something, _something_ about the man that keeps him enraptured. Maybe it’s their shared past of volleyball, or their small town roots, but there is something so familiar in the deepness of his voice, in the flash of those green eyes, that has Oikawa practically melting in his bar stool. Like he’s known this man much longer than a few hours, centuries even, and the thrum of it tingles every cell in his body.  

He’s not sure when it happens, must have been after they order their third round of drinks--whiskey, Iwaizumi had insisted--that Oikawa realizes the man has his hand on his thigh, hot and warm, thumb idly rubbing circles. Once Oikawa realize this he can’t stop, lets his own hand balance himself by lightly holding on to the man’s upper arm, fingers tentatively testing out the muscle there. Firm.

Oikawa laughs at something teasing the man says, breath close to his ear. He shivers, his own face tilting closer, laugh breathy on his lips. He looks into lidded green eyes, and Oikawa can’t help the smile that stretches on his face as he leans even closer. His hot breath tickles the man’s lips, “God, I don’t even know your _name_.”

The man licks his own lips, “Hajime,” he confesses, “Iwaizumi Hajime.”

Iwaizumi leans forward to kiss him.

Oikawa falls off of his bar stool, elbow hitting painfully against the counter and splitting open as he lets out a yelp. He hears Iwaizumi shout and hurry out of his own seat to help him up.

Oikawa backs away instinctively, right into someone’s legs, who then accidentally steps on his poor splayed out fingers, making him scream again in pain.

“Hey, get away from him so he can stand!” Iwaizumi growls and in the reprieve Oikawa manages to stand up, cradling his injured fingers to his chest.

“You’re an _Iwaizumi_ ?” Oikawa cries, voice verging on the fringes of hysteria, a combination of his anxious mind running a mile a minute and the alcohol circulating through his veins making everything slow and nonsensical.

This doesn’t make sense.

This can’t be happening.

 _But he’s so attractive_.

Iwaizumi stares at him, absolutely dumbfounded at the accusation.

“You, you, you’ve ruined my life!” Oikawa screams, reminding himself of that truth, pushing down all those traitorous feelings until their buried deep under his rocking stomach.

“What? What are you talking about?” Iwaizumi snaps, confusion muddling his expression.

Oikawa’s face twists into something angry and hateful, “My name’s Oikawa Tooru.”

Iwaizumi’s eyes widen, taking his own step back, and the recognition in his eyes is enough for Oikawa to turn away and get the hell out of there as fast as he can.

Iwaizumi realizes then, when the bartender shouts at him a warning, that Oikawa had not paid the bill yet. He blanches, stumbling back to the bar and weakly pulling out his card. He almost faints when he sees the tally for their six drinks, tries to tell himself he didn’t need to eat this week.

Oikawa realizes half way home, after tripping twice, that his elbow has been bleeding out this entire time.

* * *

Oikawa is made of magic and stardust. 

Iwaizumi is sure of it.

He watches him, a moment, holding his breath tight in his chest. Oikawa kneels by the water, head ducked down to the ground, hands splayed out on either side of him. He is murmuring to himself, something surely divine and there is a glow about him, a warmth he exudes, that Iwaizumi longs to embrace.

He waits, patiently always so patiently, for Oikawa to finish, watches as he traces patterns in the dirt, fingers cupping the water of the pool, carefully exhaling into it. It sparkles in his hands, glistening as it spills through the gaps of his fingers, running down his pale arms in narrow streams.

Iwaizumi bites his lip.

Oikawa closes his eyes, lifts his face up to the sky, breathes in, breathes out, and then his shoulders relax. His head lolls to the side, until his glimmering brown eyes meet Iwaizumi’s and he smiles.

Iwaizumi worries his legs may falter at the sight. 

Oikawa lifts himself up slowly, gracefully. He’s wearing one of his more precious robes, every inch of it beaded into an intricate swirl of green and white vines, wrapping around him in a delicate embrace. A dangling light blue earing shimmers through his long hair, catching the moonlight. He lifts his long sleeved hand, the fabric falling down to reveal his pale wrist, one finger poking out to beckon Iwaizumi in.

Iwaizumi obeys, stepping into the garden, quietly. But he can’t help to murmur out playfully, “You found me.”

“I always do,” Oikawa replies in kind.

How many times has he seen him like this, in the moonlight? How many years has he ventured into this very garden and yet each time he feels born anew? To be blessed with this sight, with this man, who calls to him in ways no other can, who speaks to him so clearly, who understands him so innately.

It’s not enough.

Oikawa smirks at him, “Iwaizumi is thinking too hard, isn't he? I don’t believe that is good for you.”

Iwaizumi snorts, hands reaching out, _wishing_ , _pleading_ \--

Oikawa steps back smoothly, brown eyes dancing with mischief in the night. Iwaizumi clenches his hands as they fall to his sides. He’s not sure how many more teasing nights he could stand, how many more years of ghosted touches, delayed promises and whispered words.

The flash of pale skin makes Iwaizumi look up again. Oikawa is still smiling at him, head tilted back as his robe slips down on one side, revealing a slender shoulder. Iwaizumi tenses as the other shoulder is revealed, and then quite suddenly, the robe is dropped to the ground.

Iwaizumi takes in a sharp breath.

Oikawa lets out a light airy laugh, eyes challenging, “What? It’s not anything you have never seen before is it? We’re both men, aren’t we, Iwaizumi?”

Iwaizumi swallows.

Oikawa’s white teeth peak out from his lips, _dangerous_ and then he looks away completely, walking carefully to the edge of the pool. He slips his long, _long, incredibly long_ legs into the water with a pleased exhale.

His brown hair fans around him when he dips down completely, breaking the surface after a moment. He stands up, water droplets running down his bare chest, beading in his clavicle and the dip of his belly button. He pushes his bangs back, letting his fingers slip through the length of his long hair. He takes some of it, pulling it in front of his shoulder to glide his fingers through the strands. In the same moment his brown eyes peek up at Iwaizumi, holding his green eyes, “Well? Won’t you join me?”

Iwaizumi rips off his own clothes, jumping into the lukewarm water. His splash hits Oikawa, who lets out a startled little squawk before he can remember to recover himself. Iwaizumi grins at him the noise sweet to his ears. Oikawa rolls his eyes, trying to regain his earlier composure, but now that Iwaizumi is able to swim close to him, he can see the flush dusting his cheeks, betraying his human heart.

Oikawa sinks low into the water, his chin dipping below the surface and his hair pooling around him. Iwaizumi mirrors him, “Oikawa.”

Oikawa smiles, but it does not reach his eyes. He looks to the side, as if his eyes have caught something interesting in the distance but Iwaizumi knows they haven’t. “You’ve said nothing about my hair. It’s almost to my knees,” Oikawa pouts instead.

Iwaizumi sighs, “It’s nice.”

“It’s more than nice,” Oikawa snaps, looking back at him fiercely, “It’s a Shrine Guardian’s greatest pride.”

Iwaizumi leans forward, “You’re beautiful.”

Oikawa turns completely away, swimming deeper into the water. Iwaizumi follows after him, “Oikawa.”

“We _can’t_ ,” Oikawa hisses back, stopping only when Iwaizumi is able to grab his arm and turn him back around.

“I can take care of you,” Iwaizumi insists, “We can go, go far away and--”

“ _I_ can’t,” Oikawa insists, “What will become of the shrine? I am the last healthy child. The shrine’s been in my family for generations! I can not abandon my work here, you _know_ this.”

Iwaizumi lets him go, because he feels like hitting something, and he dares not have his hands near Oikawa in that moment. He grits his teeth as he speaks, “Oikawa, this, I can’t just live my life like this, stealing glances through the bushes like, like a child. It’s not, it’s not fair to me, or to you.” Iwaizumi swallows then, looking away, “Maybe, maybe we should just stop.”

Oikawa’s hands are cupping his face instantly, “You can’t,” he murmurs, calm veneer thin, betrayed by the way his fingers dig into Iwaizumi’s skin, as if he’s afraid he’ll disappear in that very moment, “You can’t leave. You can’t.”

“Oikawa,” Iwaizumi pleads, fingers wrapping around Oikawa’s wrists, pulling him closer until he can press their wet foreheads together. His words cascade from his lips, pulled out from the deep recesses of his heart so easily, “Oikawa, I, Gods, in the village they call me strong willed, and yet I am so weak to you I could never possibly leave you.

Oikawa smiles, “Iwaizumi you are too nice to me.”

“And you are too hard on yourself,” Iwaizumi murmurs, breath hot against the other’s lips, “It is always what is good for the shrine, what the Oikawa family wants, what the shrine priests want.” Iwaizumi lifts his head back, letting the moonlight illuminate their faces. Oikawa is unmasked in this moment, tears at the edges of his eyes, a line for a mouth, wobbling as he fights to keep it still. Iwaizumi smiles at him, pained, “What does _Oikawa Tooru_ want?”

Oikawa licks his lips pained and hesitant, brown eyes, shimmering like gold in the soft light, look up at him, “I want you to kiss me.”

“Will you let me?” Iwaizumi asks.

Oikawa’s fingers squeeze into their palms, fear passing over his face, always thinking up the worst, fearing the worst, only seeing the worst.

When Iwaizumi looks at Oikawa he only sees the best the world has to offer.  

“Just this once,” Oikawa murmurs, quiet and hesitant, “Just this once.” 

Iwaizumi doesn’t let him think twice, leaning forward and pressing his lips onto his in what is supposed to be a chaste kiss. But the longing, the desire, the need, built between the two turn it into so much more. Iwaizumi clutches at Oikawa’s waist below the water, and Oikawa grips his shoulders in a vice-grasp, tilting his head and pushing further. Neither knows who opens who’s mouth first, but they find themselves melting into each other.

Iwaizumi pushes until Oikawa’s back hits the edge of the water with a groaned sigh, quieted by another kiss, and another. Slow movements become more feverish, Oikawa’s arms wrapping around his neck to pull him desperately closer.

“Hajime,” he whispers, kissing him again, and again, and again, “Oh Hajime, my gods, I adore you.”

Iwaizumi just keeps kissing him.

And kissing him.

And kissing him.

Until he’s gone.

There’s a horrible, ear piercing scream and Oikawa is wrenched out of the water by his hair and thrown to the side. Iwaizumi can’t even process it, one moment he’s in his arms and the other he isn’t. And there is a man standing up above him, a torch in his hand illuminating his sharp face.

There’s another man with him, hand fisting Oikawa’s hair as he writhes and screams. Iwaizumi shouts, then, mind catching up to reality and he moves to haul himself out of the waters. But the glint of a sword pointed at his neck makes him freeze.

“Don’t!” Oikawa begs, falling incredibly still. His hair is a mess around his naked, shaking form, on all fours in the dirt. The man, still gripping a few brown strands in his fist, raises his foot ready to kick him again but Oikawa isn’t defending himself, is not even looking at his assaulter. Instead, he is staring up at the other man, eyes round and terrified, “Don’t hurt him! Please!”

“Oikawa--” Iwaizumi starts, but sucks in a breath when the sword presses right at the bob of his adam apple.

“It is my fault,” Oikawa continues, words spilling out in a rush, “I seduced him, I lured him here, he is under my spell, do not hurt him. Please, Ushijima, do not. He is innocent, please, it is my fault. Do not hurt him!”

“Oikawa!”

Iwaizumi is hauled out of the water effortlessly by the giant of a man who has yet to speak a word.

“What happens is for your father to decide, not me,” the man finally says, and his words are cold and emotionless and when Iwaizumi looks over at Oikawa’s wilted form, he finds him sobbing into his hands.

He longs to rush over, to wrap his arms around his shaking form, to tell him he’s here, he’ll protect him. But when he tries to move there’s a sword pressed to between the blades of his shoulder.

The moon is shrouded by clouds, and the garden is silent as the Shrine Guardian weeps and weeps and weeps in utter sorrow.

And there is nothing Iwaizumi can do.

* * *

Oikawa waves off the concerned look his professor gives him when he hands over his term paper. He turns away quickly, wanting nothing more than to get out of his prying eyes and back to the safety of his dorm room where he can lie still in bed without fear of pain.

It had gotten worse.

A lot worse. 

It makes sense, he supposes.

For Oikawa’s entire life the story had been hammered into him by his mother and father, and his father’s mother, all the way up the line. The story of the Oikawa Family Misfortune. He’d never truly believed it. Not until his father passed away when he was thirteen years old in a freak accident, where he’d tripped into an icy street. Not until his mother had held him close to her chest, weeping into his hair in the hospital, telling him, _pleading_ with him that he must be careful, always careful. Not until he had slipped in that very room, trying to get away from his father’s body, and had smashed glass embedded into his bleeding palm, and heard his mother sob hysterically by his ear, words not meant for him but some crueler, higher power, _please gods_ _don't take him from me too_.

And then he had believed it wholeheartedly.

Oikawa waits for all the students to leave the lecture hall before going, lest he bump into someone, or fall and get trampled, or any other absurd scenario that could easily occur to him, the Unluckiest Man in the World.

“ _It’s those dirty Iwaizumi’s fault,_ ” his oba-chan had told him when he was young, on the anniversary of his grandfather’s own untimely death. He had never met the man, but his picture greeted him on the shrine in their home every morning on the way to elementary school.

“ _They forced themselves on your ancestor, corrupted him, and poisoned our line until the end of times.”_

Oikawa carefully makes his way out of the lecture hall, picking his steps cautiously. His ankle throbs in the brace he’s tied tightly around his sprain. His fingers are bandaged from a ghastly amount of sudden paper cuts, his index and middle splinted from a light fracture and his elbow is still wrapped in gauze from the deep cut he’d received slamming it into the counter at the bar last week.

He grits his teeth. The Oikawa Misfortune was that of health. Oikawa knows he should consider himself somewhat lucky because he was only _unlucky_. A klutz, really, like his father had been. He knows many in his family are sickly and bedridden, pale and ghostly, coughing more than talking. Even if his legs betray him more often than not, at least they carry him through the day.

He rounds into the corner too sharply and slams his shoulder against the wood rim, letting out a pained hiss. _Stupid!_

There’s no blood and that’s all that matters. Bruises were easy, didn’t require any attention, would just fade eventually. Cuts, on the other hand… He sighs, taking a peak and seeing, _yes_ , his elbow wound had reopened and blood was seeping through his band aid. He’d have to redress it in his room.

“Hey!”

Oikawa jumps, almost falling back into the concrete wall if not for the hand that suddenly grabs and steadies him. His eyes widen, and he stares straight into furious green. He gasps, trying to wrench his hand back, “Let go of me!”

“Stop struggling, you’re still off balance!” Iwaizumi snaps, holding firm until Oikawa settles himself. He lets go then, wiping his hand on his shirt. Oikawa takes offense to that.

“How did you find me?” Oikawa demands, holding his books tighter to his chest, like a shield over his heart. “Are you here to finish the job?”

Iwaizumi huffs, “I don’t know where you get off so high and mighty when _your_ family fucked mine over.”

Oikawa blinks, eyebrows screwing down, because that’s not true at all.

“Look,” Iwaizumi continues, shoving his hands in his pocket, “I’ll be out of your hair in a second, I just…” he falters, gritting his teeth and staring at the ground, “You said the drinks were on _you_.”

Oikawa stares at him incomprehensibly for a moment, before realization dawns on him, “You want my money?”

Iwaizumi grinds his teeth together, face pained at the words, like it embarrasses him, infuriates him, to have to ask, “It’s your fucking fault in the first place. Take responsibility.”

“What?” Oikawa says.

Iwaizumi looks like he might punch him, fury growing large enough for Oikawa to take a step back. Luckily, somehow his feet don’t betray him for once and he doesn’t slip. “If your, if your shitty ancestor hadn’t _seduced_ mine, corrupted him or whatever, my family wouldn’t be suffering through this eternal poverty.”

“What are you talking about?” Oikawa asks.

“I bust my ass every day working three jobs and still the money evaporates. A sudden emergency, a robbery, a shit _date_ , it doesn’t matter, it’s just gone. Always, and it's your family’s fault. Just, look, just pay me back for the stupid drinks so I can pay my rent today, alright?”

Oikawa swallows, and he’s not sure what pulls him to fumble for his wallet, but he does. He slips out a number of bills, doesn’t care enough to check them as he hands them over. Iwaizumi takes them, eyes widening at the sudden bundle in his palm. “There, are you satisfied?” Oikawa snaps.

Iwaizumi looks lost, green eyes staring back at Oikawa’s and Oikawa feels weak in his gaze, like he wants to fall into him, but at the same time he feels like his legs can carry his weight, a confidence in their step he’s never really had.

“This is too much,” Iwaizumi responds, trying to return some of the bills, “I can’t accept all of this.”

“Oh, so one second you want my money, and now you don’t? The Iwaizumi’s really are an ungrateful bunch, huh? Ruining my family and cursing us isn’t enough for your fickle hearts?” Oikawa bites back.

Iwaizumi stares at him.

Oikawa turns back around surefooted in his steps as he walks off, ignoring the hum from his ankle, in favor of leaving. Iwaizumi chases after him, calling his name, tone more exasperated each time, and it’s a bit amusing if Oikawa were to be honest. In another life, a less cruel life, he would probably have found it endearing and tease worthy.

“Oikawa!”

“Just keep it!” Oikawa shouts back, having enough, because it's making his heart pang in his chest with a longing he’s not allowed to have, shouldn’t have, he’d met the guy like twice now.

But there was just, _something_ about those green eyes.

Oikawa is whirled around suddenly, and somehow he’s able to keep on his feet, hand clutching back at the one that had just grabbed him to keep him balanced. He heats up a little, fingers digging into the rough calluses that make up Iwaizumi’s palm. He wonders at them, at the stories they tell.

Oikawa swallows.

Iwaizumi looks equally as flustered, “Just, just take half back,” he insists.

Oikawa pulls away, “Nope! It’s yours.”

Iwaizumi grits his teeth again, “I’ll just, I’ll just lose it you know? It’ll go to waste. So take it back.” 

Oikawa rolls his eyes, “You haven’t lost it yet have you?” he snaps, “Leave me alone, Iwaizumi, I have to get to my next class.”

Iwaizumi stares at him, dumbfounded, looking back at the bundle in his hand, as if digesting the fact that, _Yes_ , _he had not lost any of it_ , not even in the mad rush after him through a crowded throng of could be pickpockets.

While he’s clearly distracted, Oikawa is able to slip away, weave through the other students carefully, dancing around them with easy steps and managing to get to his dorm room without incident.

Without incident.

He blinks, looking at himself in the mirror.

His elbow had stopped bleeding on its own.

He doesn’t want to think about. About the pesky thought trying to claw its way through his brain. That maybe his family had been wrong all these years, all these centuries.

But he doesn’t want to think about it. About anything.

That night Oikawa has his first dream.

(Iwaizumi does too)

* * *

Iwaizumi does not see Oikawa again for a long time. The days stretch on, in the perpetual darkness he’s trapped in. Thick rope ties his hands behind his back, connecting them to the post in the middle of his straw filled cell. He can not stand, only crawl about on his knees. He has not eaten since coming here, and his throat is horrifically dry.

But he doesn’t think of that.

He thinks of Oikawa, weeping at the feet of the Lord’s son, Ushijima, begging for Iwaizumi’s life and never his own. And Iwaizumi incapable of speaking, throat choked up at the sight of Oikawa, charming, beautiful, in control Oikawa, completely undone. Desperation clawing at his tone as he gripped Ushijima’s feet in his trembling hands.

Iwaizumi remembers little else before getting hit in the back of the head, hard enough for the world to blacken to nothing.

He guesses it’s finally time when the door opens, and one of Ushijima’s men takes him out, dragging him by the rope into the blinding sun. He’s given no moment to stand, instead forced to drag along the dirt and gravel, so that it digs at his skin and cuts him open. He keeps his mouth shut.

He knows what awaits him. Death at the hands of a blade in front of his people for the crimes he has committed. He can not look his furious family in the eyes, can not bear their tear stained faces. He keeps his head looking straight ahead. He is thrown to the ground roughly, his chest hitting the dirt, in front of the head priest of the shrine, his eyes cold and wrathful above him.

Iwaizumi meets his gaze and awaits his sentencing.

And then it becomes clear he is wrong.

This is not his sentencing, he is not the main event of this execution, he is merely a part of it.

His eyes widen when Oikawa is brought in. He wears clothes too rough for his porcelain skin, dirtied and ragged. It is the first time Iwaizumi sees him in pants, bare feet bloodied and scabbed over where the peak out from the low hem.

Oikawa keeps his head high as he is shoved out into the opening, and Iwaizumi grits his teeth behind his closed lips.

Oikawa’s hair has been cut, though _cut_ is a not the word for it. Chunks have been hacked off unevenly by a sword, some spots torn out completely to reveal sensitive skin. Oikawa’s eyes are dark, gaze calm and expressionless as he looks at the crowd gathered. At his own family, the members healthy enough to come venture out here furious and mournful, perhaps more so for their reputation then the man they are about to lose.

Oikawa Tooru is the last healthy member of the family to be a Shrine Guardian, and after this, Iwaizumi doubts the shrine will take from them again. He thinks back in his head, to the family most likely to succeed them, eyes catching on the dark haired Kageyamas, standing to the side in the crowd, their head of household hiding a smile behind her sleeved hand.

Iwaizumi feels sick.

He watches Oikawa stands still and patient, as they tie him to the large wooden post in the center of the makeshift stage. Iwaizumi’s eyes widen and he tries to stand, but he is immediately kicked back down. Oikawa looks at him then, for the first time, and his brown eyes are saddened but accepting, and Iwaizumi longs to hold him, struggles with his bonds to do so.

“It’s alright,” Oikawa murmurs, softly, and yet Iwaizumi hears it, as if Oikawa is able to direct his exhaled breaths straight into his ears, “I will find you again,” he promises.

“Oikawa,” Iwaizumi says, and his voice scratches at his dry throat painfully, “Oikawa, you can’t.”

Oikawa smiles at him, then turns to his executioner expectantly.

“Iwaizumi Hajime, you have been sentenced to death for crimes of perversion against a sacred Shrine Guardian.”

Iwaizumi is not surprised.

Oikawa _is_ , however, eyes widening, seething, as he speaks out, “You said, you said he could go free!”

“The Oikawa family insisted, blood for blood. If the Iwaizumi's ask for yours, it only seems fair,” the man responds easily enough.

Oikawa’s brown eyes narrow on his family, his father’s eyes filled with righteous anger. But before Oikawa can even begin to retaliate, Iwaizumi is kicked onto his knees, head landing roughly against the stump. The guard’s boot smashes against his head, holding him in place.

And then all Iwaizumi feels is blinding hot pain, and then nothing else.

Oikawa is cold. It happens so quickly he has no time to look way. One moment Iwaizumi is alive and struggling and calling his name, and the next he is still and his head is kicked off the stump like it’s nothing. Like it had not been _everything_. Oikawa feels bile climbing up his throat, feels his whole body shaking, feels white hot fury encompass his entire being until his eyes only see white.

He does not give them the satisfaction of watching him crumble. He keeps his face neutral, biting the inside of his cheek until he can taste copper filling his mouth. He doesn’t even hear his own sentence, so focused on his own anger, his sorrow, his loss, his _hatred_.

He refuses to say anything, refuses to look down when they shove Iwaizumi’s--his beautiful, innocent, sweet Iwaizumi’s body into the kindle of the fire beginning to burn at his feet. He hears the tail end of the executioners words, “--and let the fire’s purify your dark sins.”

Oikawa laughs, head tilting back, ignoring the growing smoke billowing around him, ignoring the flames licking at his toes, ignoring the putrid smell of flesh melting beneath him. He laughs, and laughs harder when he sees the horror alighting in the features of the people watching him die. He looks at them, unflinching, smile stretching wide, hatred splitting his tongue like a snake. He concentrates on his words, turning them into truth, speaking them into being,

“Let no drop of blood be untainted, let no child of child be stranger to mine fury, let your fears consume thee, until the wrongs are right, until the beginning is the end, until my sorrow is no more.”

Oikawa suffocates to death long before the fire consumes him completely.

* * *

“Holy shit, Oikawa,” Hanamaki hisses, sitting down across from his best friend in the library.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Oikawa snaps, keeping his eyes on his open note book. There’s gauze wrapped around his head, a thick patch right above his eye, and based on Hanamaki’s pale face, blood must be seeping through it. Again.

“How?” Hanamaki mutters, furrowing his brow.

Oikawa sighs, leaning his face on his hand, bandages decorating each finger, “I fell out of bed last night. Cut my face on my nightstand.”

“Holy shit, Oikawa,” Hanamaki says again, “A nightmare?”

Oikawa shudders, “Definitely,” he grimaces, carefully flipping the page of his notebook, mindful not to cut himself this time. At this point there’s more blood than ink on the pages, “It was weird, I was, I was being executed.”

“For what? Being obnoxious?”

Oikawa shrugs and Hanamaki frowns that he didn’t squawk back at the teasing. He shifts tones, dropping the playful lilt to his voice, “You need to be more careful, it’s almost like, like you’re getting worse.”

Oikawa rubs his face, “You act like I’m not trying.”

“Something’s gotta be up,” Hanamaki continues, anyway, “I mean you’re a klutz, but this is excessive even for you. Did something happen?”

Oikawa bites his lip, keeps his eyes down and to the side. Because he knows what’s different. Knows it’s because he’s found an Iwaizumi, reigniting the horrid curse, haunting him with his handsome visage, making his heart ache unnaturally.

Invading his dreams.

He frowns harder. His life had been fine two weeks ago--well not _fine_ , a new injury every week or so is no one’s definition of _fine_ but it was his definition of normal and he was _fine_ with that--but ever since he’d gazed into those green, _too_ green, honestly, and followed the square of his jaw and the way he bit his lip, white teeth poking out over pale lips-- 

God.

Oikawa squeezes his hand into a fist, rising up suddenly, too quickly that he ends up bumping his knee on the underside of the table. _Stupid!_

“I have to go,” he states, quickly, ignoring Hanamaki’s worried look. He shoves his things into his bag and tries not to trip his way out of the library. He makes sure to walk, avoiding cracks on the road, doing his best to focus on keeping his balance.

He steps away from spilled gravel, keeps his head down and concentrates. He knows where he’s going, when to turn, when to keep straight, when to stop.

He stops.

Someone shoves him accidentally into the street and he curses, hands straightening out to catch himself, palms digging into rough gravel and he wonders if he’s scraped himself.

“Watch out!”

Oikawa lifts his head in alarm, sees a car coming, thinks of his father, breaths coming in fast and quick. But then he’s lifted, by the back of his shirt, wrenched backwards onto the sidewalk, back hitting against a strong chest. It winds him.

“Oikawa.”

Oikawa audibly gasps, feeling his name rumble through his chest, and it sounds just like in his dream, deep and rough and, and, there’s something tinging it that Oikawa can not place. He squirms around, disentangling himself and spinning around to face him.

Eyes wide, “Iwaizumi.”

Iwaizumi looks similarly distraught, like he almost lost everything again, and he’s biting his lip again, and why is that even legal?

“Oikawa,” Iwaizumi says again, eyes searching, “Your, your _face_. Are you ok?” Oikawa lets his hand raise to touch his forehead, fingers stroking at the thick gauze.

Oikawa looks away, “Why are you on my campus?”

“Why are you leaving campus?” Iwaizumi retorts.

Oikawa snorts despite himself, fighting off a smile. He steps closer, eyes calculating as he takes in Iwaizumi’s face, there’s that pull in his chest, that squeeze that leaves him breathless. He tries not to show it, “I don't think a busy sidewalk is a good place for this.”

Iwaizumi nods, reaches out his hand tentatively. Oikawa grasps it, tries to ignore the tingling in his fingers, the bubbles in his chest, and just squeezes back tight.

Iwaizumi guides him down the street, and Oikawa keeps up easily, passing through the crowd, marveling how his feet listen to him, how his balance does not betray him. He barely pays attention to his surroundings but his face does not meet the concrete of the sidewalk, not once.

They end up in an alley, near a club from the faint music he can hear in the distance. Is it late enough for clubs to be starting? Glancing around he can see the light beginning to fade from the sky.

Iwaizumi lets go of him, taking a step back. Oikawa catches himself before he reaches back for him, feet suddenly unsure beneath him.

“Oikawa,” Iwaizumi says, again, how many times has he said it now? Each time echoing within Oikawa’s chest, bouncing off his ribs to ricochet straight into his heart. It’s unfair, “I, I, tell me it’s not just me.”

Oikawa sucks in a breath, forcing on a fake smile, “Whatever do you mean?”

Iwaizumi glares at him, arms crossing, and his biceps, how could he have forgotten those biceps? “Don’t play stupid. You’re, you’re having dreams too aren’t you? Why else would you be running toward the cafe at this hour?”

Oikawa huffs, raising his chin up, trying to use his height advantage to keep the upper ground, “Everyone dreams every now and again, Iwaizumi.”

“Why are you being so fucking difficult? Don’t be such an ass!”

“Oh forgive me, Iwaizumi,” Oikawa sneers, “I’ve spent the past week bandaging myself up every single damn day because of you. So forgive me for not being so appreciative.”

Iwaizumi glares at him, “You think your week’s been rough?” he snaps, “I lost the job at the grocery store because I was busy tracking your ass down last week and missed part of my shift. That’s a third of my income gone.”

Oikawa doesn’t say anything.

Iwaizumi deflates, sticking his hand into his pocket, retrieving crumpled Yen bills, “But, somehow, I, I still have this.”

Oikawa squints at it.

“The money you gave me. Most of it went to the rent check, but the leftover, the leftover is still here! I’ve never--money always vanishes in my hands. I can’t risk carrying cash, but somehow, somehow... And it’s yours!”

Oikawa looks away.

“I had a dream,” Iwaizumi continues, wetting his lips like his mouth is so dry, like he hasn’t been quenched for years, for centuries, “All sorts of dreams. And you were there, in, in all of them. And, last night, I, we, we died.”

Oikawa looks back at him fiercely, “So what? So what! It doesn’t _mean_ anything.”

Iwaizumi shoves him, suddenly, and Oikawa stumbles backward, but he catches himself before he can fall. He glares at him, “What the fuck?!”

“You didn’t fall!” Iwaizumi snaps, “I pushed you and you didn’t fall.”

Oikawa’s lips are a thin line, “It doesn’t mean anything.”

Iwaizumi stares at him, “Why won’t you admit it? Why are you being so difficult?”

Iwaizumi reaches for him again but Oikawa dodges him, feet maneuvering around him to evade every reach, every attempted grab. Iwaizumi growls in annoyance, but there’s nothing angry about it. And there’s something fluttering in turn in Oikawa’s heart, something light and fluffy that escapes his lips without permission in the form of a giggle. It’s enough to shock Iwaizumi into stiffness, staring at him, and the way his green eyes are so open, in awe at him, makes Oikawa flush.

“How can you be so _honest_ about it,” Oikawa hisses, pulling away again, closing himself up tightly.

“How can you _not_?” Iwaizumi insists, stepping closer. Oikawa lets him this time, keeping still, “I paid my rent on time for the first time in my life, because of _you_.”

“I dreamed it too,” Oikawa confesses quietly, “I saw it, and it felt, almost like I was there, with you,” he swallows, brown eyes flicking down to look at Iwaizumi, hands hanging by his sides, back leaning against the wall, “You were, you were different,” he reaches his hand up to touch Iwaizumi’s hair, “It was longer,” he murmurs, “in a ponytail...but your eyes,” he continues, hands tracing down Iwaizumi’s forehead, down his nose, “Were the same.”

“Your hair was longer too,” Iwaizumi whispers, skin hot against Oikawa’s skin, and when did they get so _close_ , and why couldn’t they be closer? “And you were so graceful-”

Oikawa laughs, bitterly, “I’ve never been graceful in my entire life.”

“You wanna bet,” Iwaizumi challenges, and he takes a step back, and the gap between them makes Oikawa’s skin frightfully cold. He watches as Iwaizumi offers him his hand, head slightly bowed.

Oikawa feels a smile etch on his face, “You can’t be serious.”

“Try me,” Iwaizumi grins.

“The club’s right across the street.”

Iwaizumi shakes his head impatiently, hand moving forward to grasp Oikawa’s hand, “Can’t afford the cover.”

Oikawa laughs, a bit giddy, “I can’t, I can’t dance.”

Iwaizumi ignores him, holding his hand delicately, and Oikawa shivers at the contrast, with how rough Iwaizumi feels beneath his fingertips. Iwaizumi brings him close, and spins him around, and Oikawa feels silly dancing with him in an alley, to the faint sounds of music flowing elsewhere, but he’s also entranced, at the way his feet obey him, at their confident step in the uneven alley road, as he spins and hops over puddles effortlessly. He feels that airy feeling in his chest again, and his confidence surges.

He shifts them, moving his hand down to Iwaizumi’s hip, fingers digging into his shirt as he takes the lead. Iwaizumi raises a brow, but acquiesces, trusting Oikawa’s guiding hand instead, to spin _him_ through the alley. And Oikawa doesn’t step on him, not even once.

He’s breathless, and light, and laughing when Iwaizumi pulls him inward. And Oikawa can tell he wants to kiss him, and he pulls back, nervous, unsure.

“Oikawa,” Iwaizumi says.

“We can’t,” Oikawa replies.

"Why?”

“Your family...my family...the curse _said_.”

“That’s not what it said,” Iwaizumi snaps, grip tighteing, “You heard what it said, you remember what it said, what _you_ said, they’re _wrong,_ have been wrong for centuries.”

Oikawa breathes in sharply, “My family--”

“I don’t care about what your family wants. What do _you_ want?”

Oikawa swallows, brown eyes sinking into green, blending together into a sacred forest, and Oikawa can’t help the words that pull from his lips, “I want you to kiss me.”

Iwaizumi smiles, leaning even closer, until his breath ghosts teasingly against Oikawa’s lips, “Will you let me?”

“Just this once,” Oikawa replies, caught in a memory. 

Iwaizumi doesn’t let him think twice, closing the distance between them to kiss him fiercely, like he should have done weeks before, centuries before. Something ignites between them, something burning and passionate and desperate and needy.  
  
And they _remember._  Everything and so much more.

Oikawa clutches at his face, fingers digging into Iwaizumi’s hair to pull him closer. Iwaizumi growls against his lip, a hungry noise that makes Oikawa’s knees weak, makes him bend lower, so their heights align. Iwaizumi pushes him against the alley wall again, and the force of it opens Oikawa's mouth.

The kiss deepens, hungry and sloppy and everything they needed, ever needed. Iwaizumi gasps, pulling away, and nuzzles into Oikawa’s neck, desperate to get closer, to feel him closer. Oikawa smiles, feeling the hitch in Iwaizumi’s breath, the jump in his strong shoulders, the wetness seeping into his shirt collar. Oikawa lets his hands run through his dark hair, before he brings his other to cup Iwaizumi’s face and lift him up.

He wipes the tears away with his thumbs, kissing him softly on his lips. Iwaizumi looks at him adoringly, “You _actually_ found me.”

Oikawa kisses him again, “I always will.”

**Author's Note:**

> this was really fun to write and I've been dying wanting to share it with everyone the past week. 
> 
> let me know what y'all think!
> 
> until next time


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